Journeys and Quiet Times
by Eden Evergreen
Summary: (VQL # 8) (Spoilers enclosed) Beginning 1300 years post-manga, Vash's life seems to have settled into a mostly pleasant and quiet pattern... or has it?
1. Wedding

_Vash the Stampede belongs to the amazingly creative Yasuhiro Nightow, not me._

_The following chapter begins roughly 1300 years post-manga._

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**Wedding**

Vash had his suspicions.

He did some checking, nosing around in the Sheriff Central computer. He couldn't find any indication of who had given the order, which suggested that said person must be well up the ladder. However, the pattern was abundantly clear.

It was a trifle too convenient that the _only_ two independent female plants on the payroll were _always_ chosen to assist his eldest sons, Nicholas and Alex.

It was interesting that Alex was always chosen as the plant healer, when ever there was a need to go into territory so dangerous that additional bodyguards were wanted. This pattern was ongoing for 55 years.

They never paired those girls with Rem and Naomi, nor with Lina and Tessla, nor even with himself and Shyla. The two non-related plant girls were always sent out with Nicholas and Alex. It happened that way every single time. There were no exceptions.

It had partially worked. He shook Nicholas' hand, since they were in public. He'd hug his boy later, when none of his friends would see it to tease him. He hugged his new daughter in law now, and kissed her cheek in an appropriately fatherly manner.

He'd noticed the pattern by the fourth time it happened. So he'd done a little checking, and found no fault in the records for either girl. He'd "found" occasion to visit them, with Shyla along to get a feminine perspective. So he and Shyla knew both of the young ladies, as individuals, long before Nicholas had proposed to Clara.

Thankfully, both of the girls' personalities were entirely above reproach... and the one Nicholas had chosen was surprisingly well-suited to his disposition. That had been a relief, though he and Shyla had continued visiting each girl occasionally as the pattern continued.

Today, as Clara married into his family, Vash had the honor of "standing in" as the father of the bride (at her request). So he'd smilingly walked her up the aisle, and given her hand into the hand of his son.

He was truly happy for Nicholas. However, it might take him awhile to grow accustomed to being called "Grandpa." He saw the look in his son's eyes, and knew that title wasn't likely to be far off.

He'd continued keeping an eye on the orders coming through Sheriff Central's computer ever since. That meant he knew they had recently hired two more female plants, and had assigned them to join forces with his younger sons, Brad and Livio.

He wasn't sure he liked the idea of Sheriff Central playing matchmaker for his children.

He'd spoken with Shyla, and they had already arranged vacation time to visit each of the new girls. Those meetings would take place *before* the girls in question met their sons. He wasn't sure what he or Shyla could do if either girl turned out to be unsuitable, but if there _did_ seem to be any problem, they'd do their best to prevent the upcoming meeting between said girl and their sons.

He wasn't sure if he was glad, or disappointed, that the only male plant besides himself and his sons had died two centuries ago. Sometimes, he almost wished that Knives had found a willing female plant just before he died. If a voluntary partner had given birth to a son after Knives' death... he sighed.

That hadn't happened, and there was no point in daydreaming about it. He hoped his daughters would find contentment without too much craving for a masculine plant. It hurt to think of all the pain that any of his daughters would suffer, if she came to love a short-lived normal human male enough that she wanted to marry him.

There were occasional rumors that a male independent plant had appeared. Each time Vash and Shyla went to investigate, however, they found nothing and no one. The person(s) who claimed to have found a baby boy plant always abruptly moved away, without any forwarding address. There were never any newborn or young boys anywhere in that town, either.

Vash was beginning to suspect that someone was killing the baby boy independents, for fear of another Knives-like personality running amok. He was thankful that he was himself mistaken for being a half-plant, making his children apparently three-quarter plants, and therefore perceived as less of a threat than a pure plant.

He'd have been happy to adopt and raise any independent boy plants that happened. Perhaps he should find ways to drop hints along those lines, and see if anything changed.

He and Shyla took their place in the reception line, and they started giving out hugs and / or handshakes to each guest.

His other children seemed pleased for their brother; though most of them looked as if he were speaking a language that they didn't understand. Naomi seemed to understand Nicholas' joy better than the others. Vash hoped she wasn't hurting too much, either from loving a human or from loneliness.

That most of his children didn't seem to understand was fine with Vash. He felt no urgency for his children to seek mates. To him, it was more important that they be happy. Whether it took ten years or ten thousand, he'd much rather see them happily than hurriedly wed.

Almost everyone was smiling, delighted to share the joy of the newlyweds.

Everyone but that blonde girl over there, that is. She looked positively grim. Vash kept flicking his gaze toward her between greeting other guests, as she gradually drew nearer for her own turn to greet everyone.

(I see her, too) Shyla's thoughts gently whispered into his mind. (I've seen her before, at some of the gatherings of sheriff and marshal representatives. She often seemed to have eyes for Nicholas. I hope she won't do anything foolish.)

(I hope so, too) Vash responded, continuing to watch her. Since Shyla reminded him, he now knew where he'd seen her before. Naturally, he'd overlooked her interest in his son. Thankfully, Shyla was better attuned to such details. Between them, they rarely missed seeing anything of importance.

The grumpy girl approached slowly, apparently slipping further back in the line of guests. Perhaps she wished to be the last to greet the newlyweds? Or, hopefully, she was having second thoughts about venting her temper here.

(She's going to do something foolish,) Shyla's thought was tinged with sorrow.

Vash nodded inwardly, and moved slightly closer to his son and daughter in law. He saw that Shyla was doing the same. Shyla had always been slightly more sensitive to the feelings radiating from humans than he was. He shared his inner smile with his wife, and felt her response.

When the angry girl reached the newlyweds, she was the last guest in the line. She went straight to the bride, and called her the worst, lowest, most insulting version of "prostitute" currently in use. As she spoke, she raised a hand as if to strike her.

Nicholas was closer than Vash, and his reflexes were equal to his father's. He caught the girl's wrist before her intended blow reached his bride.

"She is not," he said with quiet intensity. "If you cannot be polite, Kendra, the door is over there." He released her wrist with some momentum in the direction of the indicated door. It wasn't enough to make her fall, but it was enough that she had to take an extra step or two to regain her physical balance. The status of her mental balance remained an open question.

"This should be my wedding, mine!" she spat. "I knew you first. I saw how you looked at me, so I _know_ you were interested. Then she comes along and bribes someone to get herself assigned as your co-partner, and now you're marrying her. So did she..." The girl suggested some bizarre versions of intimate activities - things that most people found unappealing (because they'd be downright painful) - as possible ways that Clara had won Nicholas' interest.

"My goodness, you're a crass little thing, aren't you?" Shyla said conversationally. She now stood beside the angry girl, and had taken a hold of her arm. "That kind of language doesn't belong in a church." She began steering the girl toward a door.

"This isn't over," the girl hissed over her shoulder, when it became clear that she couldn't wrestle free from Shyla.

Nicholas stood with his fists clenched, glaring after her for a moment. Then he turned to his bride, who looked ready to cry, and began to comfort her.

Vash squeezed first his son's shoulder, and then his daughter-in-law's. After that, he followed Shyla and the disruptive guest.

"You don't know what she is," the envious girl was railing at Shyla, when Vash joined them. "If you did, you wouldn't let your son marry her!"

"Actually, it sounds like we know her better than you do," Vash said softly. "We've known her for fifty years. Clara's behavior has always been above reproach. If she were the type of person you're suggesting, my wife would have detected it long ago."

"Isn't it true," Shyla said gently, "that you are the one with some experience in the matters you are describing in such great detail? Did someone force you to do those things?" She sounded sad as she asked, genuinely offering comfort and support.

"I do what I want," the young blonde yelled in Shyla's face.

"Then do it elsewhere," Shyla said firmly. She let go of the girl, but stood in the doorway beside Vash.

Since the two of them effectively blocked the doorway, the girl had a shortage of options. "I'll get her for this," she hissed between clenched teeth, glaring between them as if trying to see Nicholas' bride through the doorway.

"I wouldn't recommend trying," Shyla said. "Nicholas is not my most bashful boy. When he wants something, he goes after it. This suggests that you are mistaken, and that he never wanted you. You'll only annoy people if you continue this rude behavior."

The girl's eyes focused on Shyla, perhaps for the first time. Previously, she'd been looking past her, into the reception. "You'll pay for interfering," she said. "I'll see you dead. Do you hear me? _Dead!_"

Vash felt his eyebrows draw down into a frown. He reached into his back pocket with his prosthetic hand, and silently pulled out his handcuffs. "That sounded very much like a threat," he said with quiet intensity.

"It was no threat," the girl said. "It is a promise!"

"In that case, I arrest you..." he recited the necessary legal protocols as he snapped the handcuff onto one of her wrists. He tried to sound bored, as the best way to communicate to this little firecracker that she was not making a favorable impression. He was rewarded by a startled expression on the girl's face as he caught and cuffed her other wrist.

She seemed to have forgotten that she was dealing with law enforcement officers, even though he and Shyla were both openly wearing their deputy marshal stars. Threatening any law enforcement officer, on or off duty, was a felony.

The girl continued hurling abusive words, and threats, at both of them as they walked her to the Sheriff's office. There was only a skeleton crew, since most were attending the wedding. However, there were enough in the office to participate in the necessary paperwork of processing her arrest.

Those who were present appeared completely surprised. None of them previously had any idea that she was so venomous.

Vash sighed sadly. He always found it sad when someone allowed disappointment to grow into bitterness, and then hatred. It especially saddened him that this girl must have some plant blood in her. How else could she have known Nicholas so long and still appear so young?

He knew the girl would not listen to reason from him, at least not today. He might try on a later day, or perhaps Shyla would. He hoped someone could reach through her wall of bitterness to help her rediscover her better self.

For the moment, best that she cool her head in the jail where (hopefully) she couldn't harm anyone.

They finished the needful paperwork, and left the office. As they closed the door behind them, one of the sheriff's deputies asked about slipping a sedative into her next meal, and the others laughed.

The girl was still swearing and threatening and carrying on as they walked away.

"I hope there's still some cake left," Vash said cheerfully, hoping to change the subject.

Shyla gently swatted at his shoulder. "As if that's the only reason you attended, or the most important," she said playfully. "Cake, indeed."

"I like the cake too," he protested, equally playfully. "Or maybe they had some donuts?"

She laughed and hugged him. "Yes, there are doughnuts," she said, "or at least, there were. You're growing predictable in your old age."

"I am not!" he said. He put an exaggerated "startled innocence" expression on his face.

"Maybe you're only predictable to me," she allowed, smiling. Then her playful tone was exchanged for a softer, more serious comment. "I have a proposal for you."

"But Mayfly, we're already married," he teased. "Though if _you_ want to ask _me_ this time... I promise that I'll be 'predictable' and accept." He grinned widely, and he hoped charmingly, at her.

She laughed again. "Well, _acting_ married would be a part of it," she said mysteriously.

He stopped walking to look at her curiously.

This time her laugh was more nearly a giggle. "Did you see the way our son looked at his new bride?" she asked.

"He looked like almost every other bridegroom I've ever met," Vash replied softly, briefly abandoning all joking and teasing. "He appeared to be totally enchanted by his bride, and barely noticing that there's anyone or anything else in the world." Seeing her expression, he added, "Yes, myself included. You were saying?"

Shyla's cheeks were slightly pinker than usual as she said, "I was thinking he looks likely to be a father soon."

"That tends to be a side-effect of people getting married," Vash agreed calmly.

"Well," Shyla said, "we always planned to have more children, eventually. Wouldn't now be a good time? We've been away from home almost constantly for the last hundred and fifty years. If we raise a few more children now, then Nicholas' children will have someone to visit and play with."

"True," he said. He made a playful exaggeration of thoughtfully considering an idea that was new and perhaps very slightly less than welcome.

That earned him a raised eyebrow and a no-nonsense expression from his wife. Then her expression softened. "If we have a boy, we could name him William after William Reeve."

He said, "I have a counter proposal." He grinned mischievously as he spoke.

"Oh, really?" she said guardedly. "And what might that be?"

"I propose that we go home and attempt to have at least four more children in the immediate future," he said, "_and_ that we offer to be adoptive parents for any independent plant children that nobody else wants."

Shyla looked thoughtful, and heartbeats kept going by while she pondered. He wasn't sure if she was teasing him as he'd teased her, or if she really needed to consider the idea for so long.

"Agreed," she finally said. "If they're making sure no little boy plants grow up, perhaps that offer can spare at least some of them."

He smiled. "I should have known you'd figure that out, too," he said. "I don't know it's happening, but..."

"... but just in case, let's provide an alternative." She smiled. "This could be interesting. It would mean less traveling for us. However, if it saves lives..."

He nodded, and his smile widened. "I love you," he told her.

"I love you, too," she said, still smiling.

"Let's go help Nicholas finish his cake," Vash said. "Then we can clean things up here, and head for home."

She linked her arm in his, and they went back into the church.

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**Author's Note:**_Hopefully, this story should be able to stand alone. However, it is also a sequel to __"Humans and Plants." __Prior to that tale comes (in chronological order):__ "Vash's Quiet Life"__ (1__st__),__ "Vash's Long Road to Home" __(2__nd__),__ "Rem Returns" __(3__rd__),__ "Vash Vindicated" __(4__th__),__ "Shared Memories" __(4.5),__ "Disquieting Days" __(5th), and__ "Loss" __(6th). I hope you will enjoy all of them that you choose to read._

_There's also an associated "free verse" poem titled__ "Too Late," __and a semi-associated collection of shorter stories,__ "Search for a Stampede."_

_ (Just in case anyone happens to be interested in reading any more of what I imagine might follow the manga's end.) _;-)

_There are also two companion tales to this series written by the highly talented _"JasperK": "Stasis" _and_ "With This Ring." _Please give them a read, if you haven't already read them. Thanks!_ :)


	2. Lunchtime

_Vash the Stampede belongs to the amazingly creative Yasuhiro Nightow, not me._

_The following chapter begins roughly 1301 years post-manga._

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**Lunchtime**

"William, Tonis! Get back here this instant!" Shyla called. She sighed as the older boys kept running. She had her hands full with their younger siblings, Carl and Kaite. The elder twins were nearly a year old; the younger ones were four months old yesterday.

The littler boys were calling after their elder brothers, who were running parallel to the edge of a cliff... and too close to that edge for their mother's comfort. It was all she could do to hold on to her youngest children and prevent them from taking the same risk.

Sheriff Central was bringing their first two foster children today. A girl plant, almost three months old. Since she had not been named, they planned to call her "Luida."

There was also, to their surprise and delight, a newborn boy plant coming. It had taken a tremendous amount of pleading and paperwork before Sheriff Central had agreed to let her and Vash adopt a baby boy plant. Now it seemed that it would finally happen.

They'd known the girl was coming since her discovery, but she was found far enough away that it had taken this long for her to arrive. The boy they only learned about two days ago. They planned to name him "Frank" after a gunsmith friend of Vash's who had long ago passed on.

Nicholas and Clara would visit later in the week, bringing their own children. It would make for a full house during the "survival of the fall" celebration.

Yet it would be worth it.

Shyla looked forward to having all of her children around her again. She did not begrudge them the lives they had as adults, not by any means. It was just that she enjoyed seeing them when she could. Since tomorrow was such an opportunity, she planned to make the best of it.

She already had things simmering on the stove at home that would become special "holiday treats" for tomorrow's gathering.

"All right," she called after her rebellious sons, "I'll go home and have lunch without you." She smiled to herself, knowing what response that threat was likely to cause.

As predicted, her boys suddenly decided to come back to her. "Aww, mom," Tonis said, "You don't fight fair!"

William looked apologetic through eyes that bore an uncomfortably strong resemblance to his father's. Shyla schooled herself to retain a firm expression on her face, no matter how much his eyes melted her heart.

"Come on," she said, relenting and smiling at them both. "There might be some doughnuts left over from your father's breakfast that you can have for dessert."

They both seemed almost as cheered by that thought as their father would have been. She smiled, and led them home while still wrestling to carry both of their equally energetic younger brothers.


	3. Typhoon

_Vash the Stampede belongs to the amazingly creative Yasuhiro Nightow, not me (*sigh*)._

_The following chapter begins roughly 1301 years post-manga._

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**Typhoon**

Vash stormed into the Seeds village's Sheriff's office, leaving the door open behind him.

"Let me speak to the Sheriff," he said tensely. He was wearing his deputy marshal's star, which placed his rank above that of the sheriff's deputies, but below that of the sheriff.

The deputy at the front desk swallowed hard, and nodded. He was young, and one of many that had attended Vash's classes and workshops at the law enforcement academy.

"I'm not angry with you, Joseph," he said, as gently as he could manage. "But there is something badly wrong, and I mean to get to the bottom of it. I believe the Sheriff can help."

He saw that the young man looked relieved. "I'll see if she has anyone else in her office," he said, and left with alacrity.

Joseph returned quickly. "She's alone, and expecting you," he said.

"Thank you," Vash said. He tried to avoid stomping angrily as he walked toward her office, but he needed an outlet for his wrath before he reached her. The likelihood was that she knew nothing, and would gladly help him. He mustn't snap at her. She didn't deserve that.

Her superiors, though, they might deserve that and then some.

"Good day, Martha," he said.

"Hello Nate," she replied. "Please, feel free to sit. What can I do for you?"

"I'm not sure we'll be in here long enough for me to sit," he said, half apologetically. "Frank has started talking well, as of this morning. He's asking where his brother is."

"He had a..." Martha's eyes were wide with shock. "I had no idea," she said. She leaned against the back of her chair, as if she'd been gut-punched and needed the support.

"I figured you wouldn't," Vash admitted. "However, _someone_ knew. I want to find out what happened to that brother... and if he is still alive to be adopted."

"You're right," Martha said, "about not sitting. Let's go."

Together they went to the village's communications center. They immediately gained a secure room, and began fighting the various chains of command. As expected, it proved extremely difficult to find anyone with the desired information.

It took them four hours to find someone who would even admit to knowing what they were talking about. That person refused to say anything over the radio.

"Rem and Naomi are here this month," Vash said. "Shyla and I can come to visit you."

"I'll see what I can gather for you, while you travel here," the man said, and cut the transmission.

Vash slumped into a chair for a moment, and dropped his face into his hands. "I have a terrible feeling that we will arrive too late," he said, his voice cracking. He wanted to cry, but knew time might be too short. The swifter he acted, the better chances of a less sorrowful outcome.

If it wasn't already too late.

Martha gently laid her hand on his shoulder. "We can only do our best," she said softly. "Perhaps this will help for next time, if not now."

He nodded, raised his face, managed a half-smile, and stood. "I'd best go inform my wife and daughters to make our own preparations. May we borrow a shuttle, for swifter travel?"

"I'll make the arrangements," Martha said. "And I'll come with you."

"Thanks," Vash replied. "We'll need all the assistance we can get." He strode swiftly toward home, hoping that something good would come out of this trip.

...

They took little Frank with them, and left their other children in the care of Rem and Naomi. They spent two months visiting people who sent them to other people or other places. The "run-around" routine grew increasingly frustrating, since they knew that each hour reduced the likelihood of finding the other boy alive.

Finally, they were directed to a large laboratory in a small town.

As they approached the entrance, Vash spoke very quietly. "Frank, would you please let Martha hold you?" he asked gently. "Mama and Papa need to go inside, and there might be scary things in there. We don't want you to have bad dreams."

"I'm a big boy," Frank protested.

"Yes, you are a big boy," Vash agreed, smiling for him. "But some things are so scary that they give _me_ bad dreams, and I'm bigger than you are. Please, will you stay outside with Martha - at least until we know what's inside there? If there's nothing too scary, then you can come in with us."

Frank looked thoughtful, which was downright adorable on his small face. A face so small should not be compelled to think of such deep, alarming things.

Vash wanted very badly to protect young Frank. He'd discussed it with Shyla in thought. They were agreed that they would not make him face something like Tessla's situation while he was so young that it could seriously harm him. They would find a way to put it off, until he could handle it better, if their fears proved accurate.

"Ok," Frank agreed at last. He held out his small arms to Martha, who welcomed him.

"Goodness, I think you've grown since last week when I held you!" she remarked.

Frank grinned. He looked like a three-year-old human boy, even though he was only four months old.

Vash recalled, too well, how learning the events of Tessla's life had twisted Knives. He did not want that to happen again. This was likely the reason there was such a high "vanishing" rate of male independent plants. He wanted to cure that, not make it worse.

Frank deserved a better life than Knives had.

Vash nodded to Martha, and smiled a farewell to Frank. He extended his hand to Shyla, and started burying his emotions. He dared not give out an emotional spike that Frank could feel, be it anger, grief, disgust or whatever. He did not want to alarm the boy.

He saw from the set of Shyla's face, and the feel of her emotional echoes, that she was doing the same thing as he was. After a few heartbeats, she nodded, and they went inside.

...

His fears were confirmed.

When the storm broke, it did not manifest as rage... but as tears.

He rested his hands on the tube that held most of the remains of Frank's baby brother. He leaned his head on the glass and wept. His knees buckled and he dropped to the floor.

He felt Shyla's arms around him, and leaned into her embrace. His tears continued unchecked as he helplessly grieved for the dead child he would never know.

...

Vash sat silently as Shyla held Frank on her lap on the return trip, and told the boy his brother had died. She said they were doing tests on his body, to better understand what had happened. It was as close to the truth as they could bear to tell the boy.

She held him while he cried, and Vash squeezed the little fellow's shoulder. He glanced at Martha, and saw that she, too, was weeping.

It was a long trip home.

...

_...173 years later..._

"I just heard from Sheriff Central," Vash told Shyla. "They're offering us twin boy plants that were found yesterday."

"Both of them this time?" she said.

"Yes," he confirmed.

"Oh, thank God," she said, relief overflowing in both her voice and her emotional echoes. "That means all those years of fighting the system to get the paperwork through were worth it."

"Yes," he said, equally relieved. "I was also nervous that they might be having us do all that work to become fully 'qualified' as adoptive parents merely to placate us. Thankfully, it seems that part, at least, was legitimate."

"We need to head home then, and make the nursery ready," she said.

He smiled. "Yes, we do. Let's start packing."

He found himself remembering as he packed. After learning the fate of Frank's twin, he and Shyla had filled out paperwork requesting both twins, or all three triplets, etc. if there were multiple baby independent plants discovered. It took over fifteen years to complete all of the paperwork and requirements to the satisfaction of all the necessary agencies, but eventually it was approved.

He partly understood their reluctance. Even this many generations later, they were still afraid of another Knives-like plant occurring. Understanding their fears, he wondered why they finally approved his requests.

Was it that he had contributed five mentally stable sons to the body of law enforcement officers? Or was it that he taught at the law enforcement academy? Or was it that his own record as a lawman had been exemplary? Or was it that his biological twin sons were showing no signs of behaving like Knives? He would never know.

He was thankful that they were giving him a chance. He was also determined to do his best by these boys, as he had by young Frank and Luida that they had already permitted him to adopt. He wanted to help them have full, healthy, and happy lives.

He knew that Shyla had the same goals for their adopted children, and that she loved them as much as he did.

Their family was growing again, and that felt good. It also felt good to know they were saving the lives of young plants that might otherwise not have any opportunity to live.

As when they adopted Frank and Luida, he and Shyla would have a few more of their own biological children. That way, the newly adopted child or children would not need to feel like they were growing up alone. It also camouflaged who was adopted and who wasn't to those outside of their family. This could serve as an additional protection for all of their children, both biological and adopted.

In their hearts, there was no difference between their adopted children and their biological children. Their children were simply their children, and they loved them all.

He stuffed the last of his belongings, an extra box of ammunition, into the top of his duffel bag and pulled the drawstring closed.

"I think I'm ready," he said. He looked at Shyla, and saw her pulling her bag closed, too.

"In that case, let's go home," she said.

He smiled and extended his hand to her. "We'll have to choose names for them."

She took his hand and smiled back. "Yes," she said. "What do you think about Jared and Daniel?"

He thought about it for a few heartbeats, and then nodded. "I could get used to those," he said. "I hope the boys like the names, too."

They left the hotel, and started the long trip home.

...

_After that, approximately once each two hundred years, Vash and Shyla were offered an opportunity to adopt a pair of twin boy independent plants. Girls seemed to come singly, about once every 50-75 years. _

_However, girl independent plants were often willingly adopted by human families. Vash and Shyla would hear about this, but it would not involve them directly. They involved themselves indirectly, by checking in with those families periodically. They verified to their own satisfaction that the children were being treated well, and offered to help them with any plant-specific concerns that they might have._

_This became the pattern of their lives: home for twenty years to raise children, and then out on the road for the bulk of a century or more until Sheriff Central offered them another plant child in need of adoption._

_They never refused an offer of adoption._


	4. Memories of Loneliness

_Vash the Stampede belongs to the amazingly creative Yasuhiro Nightow, not me (*sigh*)._

...

_This chapter would occur roughly 1800 years post-manga, and contains spoilers for Trigun Maximum Volume 5, and Volume 6 chapter 5, and Volume 14._

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**Memories of Loneliness**

Naomi saw her father sitting in the center of a small bench just outside their house, whistling as he polished his silver revolver. The late afternoon suns' rays burnished his skin and clothes golden. His black hair, most of which was tied at his nape, had a few errant wisps blowing into his face on the slight breeze.

Her siblings currently living at home were in school at this hour. Through an open window, she could hear the soft murmurs of her mother's voice, and her twin sister's. She still missed Grandma Rem, after whom her sister was named.

A question that had tickled in the back of her brain, and had nearly burst out of her mouth several times, was again begging to be asked. She wondered if Grandma Rem would have known the answer to that annoying question. Unfortunately, she hadn't thought to ask until after Grandma Rem's days had ended.

She'd never asked that question. Yet it had been after her to be asked for centuries. Perhaps, today, she would ask, so it wouldn't pester her anymore. Perhaps... or perhaps she would again grow too bashful, and avoid the subject as she had so many times previously.

"Papa?" she said softly.

He looked up at her and smiled. "Hello Naomi," he said cheerfully. Then his expression softened and he scooted toward his right, making room for her on the small bench where he sat. "What's on your mind?"

She blushed slightly, not having intended to show so plainly that there was anything on her mind. She accepted the proffered seat to her father's left, and pondered how she could possibly ask him such a personal question without seeming disrespectful.

"It's really none of my business," she said. "I just keep catching myself wondering about things, is all." She stared out at the sky, trying to distract herself into enjoying the way the clouds were shaped.

"Hmm," he said, and she caught the playfulness in his tone. "'Things' is pretty broad. I think I'll need something a little more specific before I can say anything useful."

"Oh, it's all right," she said dismissively, feeling embarrassed. "I'm not sure if it's something I _should_ ask. It seems sort of rude, somehow."

Suddenly she felt his hand gently resting on her own. It was his artificial hand, but he used it like an extension of his own body. "Naomi," he said softly, "I hope you know that I'd rather you asked me, instead of continuing to be troubled. No matter what the question is, you're more important."

"Thanks, Papa," she whispered. She briefly turned her eyes from the sky to his face as she spoke. "That means a lot to me."

They sat in silence for a short while as she worked up her courage. "I keep catching myself wondering," she said at last, "If you ever even thought about anybody else, before you married Mama. If you ever even considered a human, for example..." she shrugged, not knowing how to continue.

"Oh," he said softly. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize you were so lonely. I'll answer that in a little bit, when Shyla can hear it, too. Not fair to tell you and not her."

"You don't have to answer," Naomi said hastily, feeling heat in her face again. "I shouldn't have asked."

"No, you needed to ask," he said. "I may not be as sensitive as your mother, but I could feel that much." He gently squeezed her hand.

She was still amazed at how gently he could use that arm and hand. She knew that he couldn't feel any sensation through it, yet he'd somehow learned to use it as gently as if he could.

"Let's go in," he said. "Your sister may be wondering something similar, and I know it's something Shyla has wondered. I knew that, sooner or later, someone would ask. You just happened to be first." He smiled, quickly putting his rag away and holstering his revolver.

She stood as he did, and followed him inside. He gestured to the couch, and she sat near the left end. She knew that his right side belonged to her mother.

He sat beside her, smiled gently, and lifted his arm invitingly. She accepted, snuggling against his left side and smiling back at him.

It was only a moment later when her mother sat to his right, and Rem sat beside her.

"Naomi asked me a serious question outside," he said. "I thought it would be better answered inside. It's a good question, though one that I've never answered before."

"What did she ask?" Rem wondered. (You didn't ask him _that_, did you?) she thought.

(Actually...) Naomi thought back to her twin.

(And he isn't mad?) she felt her twin's astonishment with the question.

(If he is, he's hiding it well. I can't tell.)

"She asked if I ever even considered any one else, before I married Shyla," he said. "The answer is... yes, very briefly, I considered it. But I realized it would have been the wrong thing to do - both for her, and for me."

"It's a long story..." he warned, and then he began telling it.

It was a long story, and a sad one. It had to be interrupted when the younger family members came home from school, until after dinner and the younger ones had gone to bed. Then the four of them returned to the couch. When all four were comfortably settled again, he continued the tale.

Naomi thought it over in her mind, during the next few days. She knew from long experience how her dear Papa tended to second-guess himself, and feel guilty for results he could not have foreseen. So she tried taking out most of the ways that he blamed himself, and instead just looked at the story.

Two young girls, named Meryl and Milly, had become friends to him. Of those two, Meryl grew infatuated with him. He was initially surprised and mildly amused.

He'd expected that, like others before her, those feelings would quickly wear off as she came to know him better. Someone new could be fascinating. After a short while, however, he would become "just another guy." That would be the end of it. He had ways of behaving that usually caused a loss of interest more swiftly than came naturally.

However, Meryl's infatuation did not wear off after a month or two. It lasted more than two years, even after he behaved as annoyingly as he could without being excessively rude. He tried to evade the two girls, but they followed him. They even continued following him after being warned, and even seeing, that extremely dangerous enemies pursued him.

Because of her tenacity, and how long she'd known him, Meryl might have grown past infatuation into experiencing something that would be more lasting toward him.

He was terribly lonely at the time. He knew perfectly well that didn't love her the way she wanted. He was fond of her, but he cared for her more like an uncle toward a favorite niece than like a man toward a woman. However, he briefly thought that creating the illusion of deeper feelings from him might make her happy. He didn't want to hurt her.

He knew it would make him less lonely, if only for the few years that she lived. He also knew he would be risking the potential that the illusion might become real. He had an idea of the pain he would endure, after her brief life ended, if he did come to care for her as more than a friend.

He was debating within himself, trying to decide what to do. Should he live a lie for this young girl, in the hope of making her happy and himself less lonely? Or would that lie, like all others, still be wrong and do more harm than good? Or would the lie become truth, and could he bear to pay that price if it did?

Then Knives' men took her and imprisoned her to bait a trap for him. He rescued her, though they almost caused him to do terrible harm in the process. Not long after, she again saw his body partially transformed. After the immediate crisis was over, when he reached out to her, she flinched away from him and buried her face against Milly's shoulder.

That hurt. It hurt partly because he'd hoped they were better friends than that. Yet it also hurt because of what he'd thought about doing for her.

That was when, and how, he knew beyond any doubt that what Meryl really wanted was a regular human man. He knew that no matter what he did, no matter what sacrifices he made, he could never truly make her happy. That would be impossible for him to do, because he was too different from what she really wanted. Though it grieved him, he walked away from her that day. He didn't let himself look back.

He met Meryl and Milly again, quite accidentally, shortly before going out to fight Knives. He saw that she still had some feelings for him. He'd fully expected that he was about to die, either killed by Knives or else in some form of mutual destruction.

Meryl was so very young at that time... barely in her twenties. He realized that he might be the first male for whom she'd ever had such feelings. He thought he would give her a parting gift, something that would make her feel good when she remembered him. So he tried to make her feel appreciated, and cared for, on the way to his own death.

They had two partings, since the battle against Knives was interrupted, and had to be rejoined. In the first parting, he persuaded her to stop clinging to him by offering a fist-bump kiss (and he blushed a little as he admitted that). In the second parting, he told her he'd be returning and asked her to wait for him.

He'd warned her that it was the first time he'd ever made such a promise, and he didn't know how well it would work. Since he expected to die, he anticipated that he would have no opportunity to keep that promise. He wanted to give some warning that it would not happen, without diminishing the gift too much.

His only selfish hope was that Meryl and Milly might give his remains a decent burial. His unselfish hope was that she would have a memory to treasure, of being valued by someone whose opinion meant something to her at the time.

When he survived, against all of his own expectations, he broke that promise deliberately. He knew that would ruin the gift he'd tried to give her, but he saw no other choice.

He knew he couldn't go to her, not even as a friend, without the result being painful to her. Instead, he stayed away. He hoped that time would help her to forget him.

He said she found him once. When she found him, she did something that made him run away from her, literally and physically. He felt that she knew what she was doing when she chased him off. He believed that had been her way of indicating that she accepted the need for separation.

He felt that staying away from her had worked, since she did eventually marry someone else. He'd checked on her, unseen, a few times. Meryl and her husband seemed happy together, which made him feel better. He continued to feel "big brotherly" toward her, and would have dealt somewhat severely with her man if he mistreated her. Thankfully, that had never appeared to be a problem.

By the time Meryl was married, he'd met Shyla. They were only friends at that time. However, it was a different friendship from any prior friendship he'd ever known. When it grew beyond friendship, there had eventually come a day when marriage seemed the natural thing to do - so he'd proposed, and (to his endless delight) she'd accepted.

Naomi remembered his final words on the subject, and pondered them along with the story they accompanied.

"Meryl was still alive when I first realized that I love your mother," he said gently. "I love Shyla the way that Meryl used to wish I might love her. By that time Meryl was very old; a feeble great-grandmother whose husband had died. She only lived a few years longer. She was centuries dead before your mother and I wed. On that day, I married the only woman that I have ever loved in a marriage-type of way."

He'd paused to hug Shyla a little tighter.

"So although I did think about it," he said, "in the case of Meryl and I, it would not have been the right direction for either of us. I have heard of happier pairings between plant and ordinary human than she and I would have been, though they are rare."

"Ordinary humans have such very short lives compared to ours," he reminded his daughters. He shook his head sadly, and looked tenderly at each of them in turn. "The result is centuries and millennia of being lonelier than you were before they became a close part of your life. I don't wish that pain for either of you."

He'd actually let go of their mother long enough to hug each of them.

"Thank you, Papa," Naomi had said. "It's nice to know."

She and Rem had returned to their house not long after.

(Well,) Rem asked, (did that satisfy your curiosity?)

"It wasn't just curiosity," she said softly.

Rem hugged her in a gentle, sisterly sort of way. (I know,) she thought. (You see how happy they are together, and you spend too much time daydreaming. We can't have what they have, though. There just aren't enough boy plants. Better to keep busy, and not think about it.)

(I know,) Naomi thought back to her sister, returning the hug before parting for the night. _Sometimes I just can't help wondering what it would be like, if things were different_.

She wished her sister a good night, as she had done earlier for her parents, and then she turned in.


	5. Nightmare

_Vash the Stampede belongs to the amazingly creative Yasuhiro Nightow, not me._

_The following chapter begins roughly 1800 years post-manga._

...

...

**Nightmare**

Vash flopped down onto their bed and sighed wearily. He stretched a little, feeling the soft fabric of his loose-fitting pajamas move around his body, and let out a long sigh. Pajamas were far more comfortable than body armor; he needed to wear that armor, even when sleeping, anyplace else.

Tonight they'd even detached his prosthetic, and left it on the table beside the bed. He felt more relaxed than he had in months.

It was good to be home.

It had been an insanely busy week. They'd hurried home a few days earlier than planned, since Sheriff Central had offered them another pair of twin boy plants to look after. They always accepted, any time plant children were offered. And they always would.

There were orphanages for human children. They sent money to those every month to help with the care of those children. But plant children, especially boys, had consistently vanished without a trace until he and Shyla had publicly offered to adopt them. Nothing could persuade either Vash or his wife to decline any offer to adopt a plant child. Not now.

The twins were still too young to speak, but they were very active. So even after the all-day-long light-gun tournament, in which all of his biological and adopted offspring challenged his skills, there had been the long wrestling match to get the little ones into bed and asleep.

He wearily turned his face toward the window and saw the last few rays of the second sun's light fading from the sky. It was summer, so the daylight lasted long. Somehow, the day's activities made it seem even longer than usual.

It had been a good day, but it had also been tiring. Scratch that; tiring was too mild a word. It had been exhausting.

He turned his face away from the window and watched as Shyla just began to button her pajama top. He smiled. When in bed at home, she wore nothing else above her waist. He always enjoyed it when he could catch a glimpse of her body before she had the top fastened.

"I think you had the easier day," he teased, partly to distract himself and partly to distract her. "Trading recipes can't be nearly as exhausting as challenging all of our offspring and descendants, or at least all who were so inclined, to a series of light-gun contests."

Shyla snickered as she leaned over to kiss his cheek. "We only have a family reunion once each decade," she said. "You'll have plenty of time to prepare for the next one."

"Maybe I'm finally growing old," he said. "It feels like every bone and muscle is aching. I don't recall being so tired before in all my life, except when I was suffering from near-mortal injuries."

She finished buttoning her top, turned out the lights, slipped under the covers and snuggled up beside him. "Shall I do a few medical experiments to learn just how old you are?" she asked. Her fingertips traced a pattern on his stomach through his pajama top.

He knew that tone of voice, and groaned. "Don't tempt me, not tonight," he pleaded. "I fear I'd fall asleep on you, before we could finish."

She giggled again, moving his arm aside to snuggle more tightly against his side and rest her head on his shoulder. "As long as I can be close to you tonight," she said, "that's all I care about. We can do other things another time."

He wrapped his arm around her and squeezed a little. "I'm so glad they deputized you," he said. "This side never feels right anymore, unless you're there. I look forward to each day's end, so that I can feel you here again. I'm glad I can enjoy that with you, even when we're away from home."

She sighed deeply. After a few heartbeats, her words came out as barely a whisper. "Nothing ever feels right without you," she said. Her fingertips slipped between the buttons of his pajama top, and very gently caressed his skin.

He could feel the echoes of her emotions as she breathed those words, and knew they came from very deep within her. Part of him wanted to lighten the mood, but that would be disrespecting the depth of her meaning.

He kissed the top of her head, and tightened his arm around her. He could think of no appropriate words to use in response. So he let her feel just how much he loved her.

Then he basked in her reciprocal emotional sharing. It was almost frightening at times, when she let him feel exactly how very much she loved him. He still wasn't used to having anyone love him like that, even after two millennia.

It felt wonderful, yet somehow it also always felt slightly unreal. Almost as if it were part of a wonderful dream, from which he would shortly wake.

_Please God_, his heart prayed, _take good care of her, no matter what else happens_.

He held her close and stroked her unbound hair. Happy tears silently trickled down his cheeks, until they both fell asleep.

...

Sometime in the night, she awoke with a soft cry of overpowering grief. He didn't know if the emotional spike or the cry had wakened him, or if it was the way she was trembling... or if it was all three.

"What's wrong?" he asked softly.

She began almost frantically unbuttoning his pajama top, or trying to. Her hands shook so badly that it wasn't working, so he helped. As soon as his chest was uncovered, she laid her cheek against his skin with her ear over his heart. Her cheeks were already wet, and she continued crying softly as she slipped her arms around him.

He gently stroked her hair, shared the depth of his affection for her, and waited.

Nightmares were uncommon for her. When one happened, though, she needed him to radiate calm and comfort. He did his best for her, even though most times it was his own memories at fault. He tried not to worry about which of his memories might have caused this reaction. She didn't need to feel his worry or guilt. She needed his affection and calm.

(An extremely vivid nightmare,) her thoughts whispered into his mind. (I'm sorry I woke you; I just needed to feel the life in you... your warmth, your breath, your heartbeat. Now that I can feel that you're alive, I'll be ok. Go ahead and sleep, dearest.)

He brought one of her hands up to his mouth, and tenderly kissed her fingertips. Those words suggested enough of the substance of her nightmare that he knew his own memories were not at fault. Not this time.

(I'm sorry the thought troubled you,) he replied. (I'll never willingly part from you.)

(I know.) He felt her inner smile through her pain and tears. (It's the thought of what might happen against our wills that pains me now. Your heartbeat and breathing will lull me back to sleep in time. I know you're weary; so please - feel free to rest. I'll sleep again ere long, too.)

(I love you, sweet Shyla,) he thought to her, and included ample proof from his heart as his arm tightened around her body.

(I love you too, dearest Vash,) she thought, and shared her own proof as both of her arms tightened around him.

He tried to relax more completely. He knew that if his heartbeat and breathing become steady and even, that would help her to relax. The twins, if nothing else, would provide them with a busy day tomorrow. They needed some rest before that came.

He was acutely aware of the turbulence of her emotions, even though she tried to contain them. He knew she was making the effort to contain her emotions not from deceit, but from caring about him and knowing he was exhausted. It was the same reason he was trying so hard to relax. He knew she needed calm from him, so he did his best to give that to her. He began stroking her hair.

Since he couldn't relax by normal means, he began to concentrate on making his body relax. Even if his mind and emotions remained alert, he needed to seem relaxed for her sake. He breathed carefully, and, one by one, he compelled each muscle to unclench. The silky softness of her unbound hair slipping through his fingers also helped him to relax. She seemed slightly less tense, so he hoped his efforts were helping her, too.

It took awhile, with his heart aching for her pain as he felt her tears continue to trickle onto his bare chest. However, his body did finally cooperate. The physical relaxation he achieved also affected him, by making his weariness resurface.

Just as he was beginning to drift toward sleep, and his fingers slowed to a standstill in her hair, he felt her move. She lifted her head off his chest, though she still clung to him with one arm. She eased his hand out of her hair, briefly hugged his hand against her cheek, lowered his hand gently to his side, and then caressed his face.

"I need to be closer to you," she whispered softly. "I don't want anything in the way..." She sat up and unbuttoned her pajama top. Clouds outside the window uncovered the moons at perhaps the best moment in that process.

She had just finished unbuttoning. She was sliding the top off, with both of her arms stretched out behind her and her back slightly arched. Moonlight caused her hair and skin to take on a silvery sheen that almost glowed. The tear tracks on her face were highlighted even more brightly than her skin or hair.

His eyes were only partly open. They refused to open further, though he tried. He must be truly exhausted for that sight to only inspire his heart, and not his body also. Yet it was a relief that his body's instincts slept, for that permitted him to concentrate entirely on her heart. He treasured heart far more than her physical beauty.

At that moment, she seemed almost ethereal as she wore only moonlight above her waist. Her graceful curves were perfectly proportioned to her slender form. The moonlight still had her skin and hair almost glowing with its silvery sheen. It was almost painful to see her, with her tears still shining as they slid down her face. Yet he would not have stopped looking, even if he could. He loved everything about her, body and soul.

She leaned toward him, initially resting her hands on his stomach. Some of her unbound waist-length hair slipped forward off her shoulders, forming softly glowing curtains to either side of them. Then she slid those delicate hands up to his shoulders, as she stretched out on top of him. She'd arranged herself so that her cheek was nearly over his heart, instead of aligning herself to have her head closer to his, or resting on his shoulder. She felt wonderful.

"That's better," she breathed. She leaned her chest on his as she caught at the covers. She pulled the blankets up over both of them, until they were both covered up to her shoulders. Then she settled on him and held him.

He was so tired that he hadn't responded when she moved. Yet he was awake enough to hear and understand every word she whispered. He could also feel every part of her that touched him and every tear that fell onto his skin.

Again, he was both surprised and relieved that his body was resting quietly. He could feel that her next words would be from her whole heart. He wanted to hear her words with his whole heart, and without any other distractions. His arm gently curled around her again, as if of its own accord.

"When I was a child, and you came to us," she whispered softly, "It wasn't long before you were the brightest part of each day. Mother and I both missed you in the afternoons, when you left us to tend the Thomases. We missed you during the one day each week when our café was closed. We both ached for your return. We existed when you were away, but only when you were with us did we truly feel alive."

"I knew the nightmare couldn't be real," she admitted softly, "even before I woke. I've known since the second year after you came to us. One day I will either die with you, or else I will die for you. It used to frighten me, knowing that. But it doesn't anymore."

She turned her head and kissed his chest before she continued. "It hurt terribly when my mother died, but you were there. You were kind enough to let me cling to you, and you comforted me. When all else was confusion and pain, you were there and you cared. You knew a way out, and you led me away. You showed me that there could be a new life, even after my human mother died."

She again rested her cheek on his chest, and held him with both arms. "You had to leave, because you were hunted. I understood that, though I never liked it. I existed, getting by as best I could, always thinking of what I could do to make you proud. I lived for the days when your letters came, or when you yourself came. Other times were dull and lifeless. Some days, it felt like I only survived on the hope of your return."

He felt her arms tighten around him. He also felt a tear trickling down his own cheek.

"Each time you left, it hurt a little more. I tried to be brave. I knew that you didn't like having to run. I knew that being compelled to stay so far from home all the time grieved you, too. Since you didn't complain, I felt I had no right to complain either. I couldn't help crying myself to sleep, though, each time that you went away."

Her whispers grew softer still, as though coming from even deeper within. "When you stopped coming back for so long, I died a little bit each day. That was before I learned to love you as your wife. I love you so much more today than I did then! If you were to go away now..."

She kissed his chest again, and then moved her face back to resting her cheek over his heart. "When I was among doctors who left to visit other towns, I was always looking for you. I kept hoping to see you, wanting to know you were well. I hoped, perhaps, to give you a pleasant surprise. Then when I finally did see you in another town..."

He'd felt her arms gradually relaxing as she softly whispered her prior thoughts. Suddenly, her arms tightened around him so much that it was almost difficult to breathe.

He was fully aware of the blend of pain and love that she was experiencing, since it was too big for her to contain and spilled out where he could feel it. He was also fully aware of every word she whispered and all that she meant. He was acutely aware of the feel of her skin, breath and tears against his own skin. Yet he couldn't wake up from his near-sleep condition enough to respond.

"That day, when you were hurt so badly... I thought it must be the day that I'd feared for so very long. The day that I would die trying to save your life," she whispered. "I was just beginning to understand how truly unique and wonderful you are. Even then, you knew how to love everybody; but I only know how to love you. I knew that you were worth saving at any price, including my life. I will do the same again, if ever you need it."

She pressed her nose against his skin, and inhaled deeply. "I can still smell it," she whispered. "We've been home for a week, and your skin still smells like the desert winds. It's as if that scent has become a part of you. Did that happen during the many years you wandered out there alone? Dear God, you're so beautiful..."

She kissed his chest again, a few times, before she again rested her cheek over his heart and spoke further. "I've taught our children how to do stasis healing, and how to break it," she whispered. "Usually, one pulls the patient into one's own rhythm. Another trained plant healer can match that rhythm, and put your hand onto their own skin, and pull you out of the trance. That way, if a patient slips too far, the healer need not die with them."

She let out a sound that was half sigh, half sob. "If _you_ ever need such intense healing again, I won't do it that way, dearest." She lifted her head again, and he felt a few tears fall before she continued. "Instead, I'll... I will match myself to _your_ rhythms. That way, I can only be wakened if the healthy body I am touching is yours. It also means that if only one of us wakes, that one will be you."

He felt more tears. Many came from her face and trickled across his chest. However, several also came from his own eyes, and trickled down his cheeks.

He wanted to say something, to protest her stated plan. He wanted to share thoughts or emotions, to let her know he'd heard her and understood. He wanted to express that his life would have no joy without her, and beg her to change her mind. He wanted to stroke her hair, or hold her tightly.

Yet, somehow, he could do nothing. It was almost as if time had stopped, and he was trapped between one moment and the next: a helpless observer.

"I don't want to die," her whisper continued. "But I am not the only one who needs you. You're so good for so _many_ people... perhaps even everyone. Our children, the ones healer-trained, they can do everything I might ever do. And they can do it at least as well as I can. If I perish, this world will go on unscathed."

"You though, you're so special," her barely audible whisper continued. "I've always known that. You mean much more to this world than I ever can. You are worth more than my life, more than anything. For your sake, and this world's, and because I love you, I will learn..."

Her whispers stopped as she began repeatedly kissing his chest between barely audible sobs. Most kisses were directly over his heart. After enough time passed that the shaft of moonlight from the window had noticeably moved, she raised her head and moved her hands over his face, neck and shoulders. "You're so beautiful," she breathed. "I _know_ you're worth it. If you ever need me, I won't hesitate."

She again laid her cheek against his chest, held onto him, and cried almost silently.

Eventually, as she'd promised him, she fell asleep again. He lay quietly, staring at the ceiling. At some point, he was able to curl his arm more tightly around her. His own silent tears continued to flow for a long time, before he finally drifted off into a troubled sleep.

...

The next morning she seemed more like her usual self than she had immediately following her nightmare of his death.

His sleep had refreshed him enough to do something about their mutual state of undress when they woke... something that they both enjoyed. He took his time, and did an extra-thorough job of kissing and caressing her before getting serious about lovemaking.

He wanted her to feel how much he loved her. Both words and emotional sharing seemed to fall short, so he tried to express some of his love for her through touch. Yet even that felt like it wasn't nearly enough.

How could he speak to her heart-cries from that night? He wanted her to know that he appreciated her willingness to sacrifice herself for him, but that he did _NOT_ want her to actually do it. Even knowing multiple languages, he could not find the words to express all that was in his heart.

Since eloquence failed him, he tried to fill in with actions.

He shared his love with her almost constantly. He began looking for ways to show her how much he valued her, like planting lilac bushes - the source of her favorite scent - just outside of their house.

He bought her a new ribbon for the antique pearl teardrop pendant she'd inherited from her human mother. He offered to wash the dishes, even when it wasn't his turn. He fixed that creaky door hinge that had been setting their teeth on edge for months. He made a nicer frame for her photograph of her human mother. He gave the nursery a thorough scrubbing, and checked for anything in there that needed repairs or replacement.

He still felt as if he was falling short of what was needed. The sense of helplessness weighed on his spirit. He would keep trying. Somehow, he would find what was lacking and give it to her with his whole heart.

She never mentioned her nightmare or her secret plan. The same was true on the day after, and so on.

She seemed very slightly "off" in her health, but nothing drastic. He tried not to hover, or stare, or otherwise make her uncomfortable. But he was worried about her.

Two weeks later, they learned that she was pregnant.

Vash was both delighted and relieved. Perhaps part of her whispered thoughts that night, the ones had frightened him the most, were a result of the intensified emotions that come with a pregnancy? He hoped and prayed that she would forget all about sacrificing herself for him.

He'd been compelled to live alone for centuries. He had no more interest in living without her than she had expressed toward living without him. One day, he hoped to find a way to tell her that. He would beg her to live on, no matter what happened to him.

Until then, he would do his best to love her as she deserved. He would help her to feel both his own love and their children's. He wanted her to better understand her own worth, and how many people valued her.

He hoped that those things would help her abandon all notions of sacrificing herself for someone as unworthy as he was.


	6. Chronica

_Vash the Stampede and Chronica belong to the amazingly creative Yasuhiro Nightow._

_The following chapter begins roughly 1850 years post-manga._

...

...

**Chronica**

The sheriff's office was bustling more than usual this afternoon. There was always paperwork, but the added paperwork that came when a prisoner was transferred in from out of town was always worse.

Chronica had gotten the afternoon off. She walked to the prison, and verified that everything was in order and well in hand. Then she asked where the deputy marshals had gone.

"Oh, they said something about visiting the orphanage," one said.

"Thank you," she said.

She left the prison and walked toward the orphanage. Many centuries had passed since the odd set of circumstances during which she'd met him. Since she'd heard that he was in town, the curiosity to see him again was overpowering.

She arrived at the orphanage to see a commotion in the fenced yard. She paused, leaning on the fence near the front gate, to see what was happening. In spite of herself, one corner of her mouth quirked upward. She should have expected something like this.

Several children were wrestling with a man and a woman. The black-haired man was very lean, and the delighted children had him pinned to the ground. They were sitting on his various long limbs, and tickling him. He was yelping and begging for mercy.

The woman was slender, not as tall, and blonde except for a black streak in her hair that started at one temple. She was laughing with the children, yet also trying to pry them off the man. They would occasionally knock her over and tickle her also. However, she was slightly swifter than they were, and would not let them pin her down as they had accomplished with him. As soon as she slipped out of their grasp, she returned to the man's defense.

Chronica watched the mayhem quietly, with her elbows propped on the top rail of the fence. A soul that gentle and caring would naturally be drawn toward children. Vash played among them as one of them, smiling and laughing with them. There was something almost painfully sweet about watching him interact with the children.

She realized that the woman had to be the same one whose image she'd snatched from his mind, so long ago. Those images had shown a young woman a barely shy of physical maturity. During the intervening time, she'd finished growing up. His wife wasn't quite pretty, but her plain face was pleasant. She knew of Shyla by reputation, and curiosity about the younger feminine plant was another magnet that had drawn her here.

After a while, the children were called in and the adults stood and dusted themselves off. They waved a farewell to the children, and then turned and began walking toward the gate.

Chronica moved to stand by the gateway, half-hidden behind one of the oversized gate posts. "It's been a long time," she said as they passed through the gate.

The woman immediately moved between them. He laid a hand on her arm, and tipped his head. Chronica could feel that they were communicating telepathically, but she did not try to eavesdrop. She didn't expect anything that rude would work, anyhow.

The woman relaxed some, and nodded, but she remained tense.

"Yes," he said, "It has been a long time. I hope you have been well?"

"Well enough," Chronica said. Then she chuckled. "The one declared a walking natural disaster. Who'd have thought he'd become bodyguard to a walking natural resource?"

Vash smiled, looking fondly toward his wife. "I got lucky," he said softly.

"Congratulations," Chronica said.

"Thank you," he said. "Oh, forgive me, I'm forgetting my manners. Shyla, meet Chronica. Chronica, Shyla."

Chronica nodded and extended a hand. Shyla gravely accepted her hand and shook it. She remembered the description Vash had given of the woman standing in front of her, at their prior meeting. Sweet, pure, gentle, innocent... the pale hazel-green eyes looking back at her were easily as gentle as his. She wondered how many of those other qualities were accurately described at the time, and how many remained the same now.

"Pleased to meet you," Shyla said softly.

"Have you eaten lunch yet?" he asked. "We were about to go find some. You'd be welcome to join us, if you like."

"Of course," Chronica said.

She led them to her favorite café. It was mostly quiet at the current time, two hours past noon. Thankfully, the kitchen was still open. A quietly competent waitress offered them menus, and everyone paused to read the options.

After their orders were taken, Shyla leaned forward and rested her elbows on the table. "So," she said quietly, "How do you two know each other?"

Chronica raised an eyebrow. "You never told her?"

He laughed nervously and scratched the back of his neck. "Well, other things seemed more important at the time," he said. "And I didn't want her to worry."

"Worry about what?" Shyla asked, concerned. Then her expression changed to indicate she was not in a mood for any nonsense. She quirked an eyebrow, and waited.

"We met shortly before he was declared dead," Chronica said. "I caught him, initially planning to turn him in for the bounty on his head."

"And I was injured," Vash continued. "That made two very good reasons to omit those weeks from my monthly letters."

Shyla tipped her head slightly to one side. Chronica didn't need to hear her thoughts to know them. She wanted the whole story, and she wanted it _now_.

Chronica chuckled. "Small wonder your children are so well-behaved, if you look at them like _that_ very often."

Shyla blushed, and relaxed a little. She directed her gaze toward her husband, and he scratched the back of his neck again.

"I can tell it," Chronica said. "Then you can pry his version out of him later."

(Thank you.) The mental voice was Shyla's, not Vash's. She wasn't jealous, or at least she wasn't jealous _yet_, Chronica realized from the flavor of her emotional echoes. She was just intensely curious, and wondered why her husband, who by all accounts was generally transparently honest, had kept something from her.

"Sometimes I like to watch the sunset from the roof of the sheriff's office," Chronica began. "One evening when I was about to jump down and walk home, I heard something beneath me. I looked down, and there he was. At the time, he was lowering something large onto the ground by the door into the sheriff's office."

"That was one of the imposters," Vash offered helpfully.

Shyla nodded.

Chronica continued. "I sensed another plant nearby, and knew who that meant he had to be. I couldn't see his face, only his black hair and general shape. I..." she looked down at her hands, resting on the table. She'd long felt guilty for what she did, and that made it difficult to say.

"She shot my leg," Vash said softly. "She'd never met me, but she knew Knives and I were brothers. So it's likely that she thought I would be just like Knives. In her position, I probably would have done exactly the same thing."

"Knives," Shyla said, barely above a whisper. She shuddered.

Vash reached over and laid his natural hand over hers. She leaned her head on his shoulder for a moment, and then straightened.

Chronica had seen the security footage of the final encounter between Knives and Shyla. She had also visited that prison personally, prior to that, during the decade when he had been held there. She'd spent many hours in the observation booths that the public couldn't access. She knew from personal experience how Knives pushed at people's mental barriers, even when he couldn't see them. She had sensed the depth of his malevolence.

After a moment, Shyla nodded at her.

Taking that as encouragement to continue, she did. "I followed Vash the short distance he'd limped, and found him bandaging his injury. He couldn't run with that. I put him in jail long enough to verify that he didn't have any concealed weapons."

Shyla had been taking a sip of water, and she nearly sprayed it across the table. She was trying to hold in a sudden surplus of mirth, but she was not succeeding particularly well.

Chronica looked from Shyla to Vash, and then back again.

"I wouldn't have used it," he protested.

"What?" Chronica asked suspiciously.

"I had a concealed weapon that you missed noticing," he admitted. Then he looked toward his wife with a very firm expression. "And that doesn't matter, since I did _not_ use it and _would_ not have." He turned his attention back to Chronica. "Please, continue," he invited.

She couldn't argue that he hadn't used any concealed weapon he might have retained, but she also wondered why it wasn't listed in his personnel file at Sheriff Central.

It took her a few minutes to realize that the concealed weapon, whatever it was, almost had to be hidden in his artificial arm. His undergarment had seemed to fit him too well to allow adequate space for a weapon to be concealed there. She mentally awarded him points for being clever at using the resources available to him.

"I realized that I should take him to a doctor, to get his injuries checked on," Chronica slowly continued summarizing the story. "So I took him to the hospital."

"Injuries, plural?" Shyla said, her brows drawing together in perplexed concentration. "How many times did you shoot him?"

"Only once," Chronica explained. "He'd been hurt capturing the imposter."

Shyla looked askance at her husband, who abruptly found something on the tabletop extremely fascinating.

Chronica held in some merriment of her own. She'd learned during their prior encounter that Vash could make his face perfectly calm. However, his eyes always spoke volumes. If one looked into his eyes, he could conceal nothing.

"How bad?" Shyla asked him.

"Just flesh wounds," he said, without looking up. "They're long healed."

"But that night, he needed a doctor," Chronica said. "So I took him to one. That got his injuries properly cleaned and bandaged."

Shyla kept looking at her husband a short while longer, and then she turned her gaze back to Chronica. "Please continue," she invited.

"While he was asleep, I tried to find out where Knives was," Chronica admitted. "I didn't learn that, because at the time he didn't know. However, I did learn that he was vastly different from his brother in temperament, personality, values... in short, he was completely different in every way that mattered."

Shyla's eyes had widened at that confession, but she did not interrupt. She nodded in agreement when Chronica mentioned how he differed from his brother.

"That shook me," Chronica continued. "I had not yet told anyone who he was. I'd described him only as someone who might be one of the bandits, or who might be one of their victims. I didn't know what to do with him, at first, because I'd expected to find another Knives... but he wasn't like that at all."

"Knives wasn't always like that, either," Vash said sadly. "I kept hoping he would remember who he truly was, and again become the brother that I knew as a child."

Chronica's lip twitched. "That explains why you fought the execution order I worked so hard to get," she said darkly. "But he never did change."

"He saved my life," Vash countered. "That gave me more cause to hope, after I learned he'd survived."

"So what did you decide to do with Vash?" Shyla asked, steering the conversation away from a subject that made them all uncomfortable.

"I looked after him for two weeks, until his injuries were healed just enough that he could travel safely," she said. "Then I took him to the edge of town, returned his revolver to him, and ordered him to go away."

Shyla looked at Vash, who nodded.

"It wasn't long after that when Sheriff Central awarded the bounty and said he was dead," Chronica said. "I knew it wasn't Vash they'd found, because the scars were wrong. However, I understood why he would wish others to believe him dead. So I said nothing." She used that to finish her tale.

"That young man was dead when I found him," Vash said sadly. "I could do nothing for him, except see that he got a decent burial. So I did something for myself, which also got him what he needed."

Chronica nodded. "I read the reports, so I know who took the credit for shooting him," she said. "It doesn't surprise me that you had no hand in his death."

Vash's eyes looked mildly startled, though his face remained calm.

Chronica chuckled. "I did learn a few things about you back then," she said. "One is that you have no desire to kill anyone."

Vash blushed, and it was Shyla's turn to smile and place her hand over his.

The waitress arrived then with their food, and they all set to eating.

...

After they finished eating, Shyla excused herself to visit the restroom. Chronica indicated she also needed to visit that room, and followed her immediately. Shyla was already in a booth when she arrived, so Chronica took her own turn in another booth.

As they washed their hands afterward, Chronica noticed that they were alone in the room. She decided to prod Vash's wife a little.

She realized that her decision to do this came partly from a mild curiosity about the subject matter that she meant to bring up, but mostly to learn how Shyla would react. It would require being crass, but she could always apologize afterward.

She wanted to know something of how good, or poor, a judge of character Vash was. Learning about Shyla should tell her a few things about him.

"So," Chronica said, "How does your husband rate as a lover? Is he better, equal to, or less effective than others you've known?"

Shyla's eyes got large, and, for a moment, she merely stood slack-jawed with dripping hands. Then her cheeks turned red, and the blush quickly spread over her whole face... and out to her ears and down her neck.

Chronica handed her a towel, having seen that Shyla was finished washing her hands. The woman was a doctor, for pity's sake. Surely, someone _must_ have asked her about this before now! Well, she could check on the concealed weapon angle... that might get a more straightforward response. "At least tell me if he pads his pants?"

Shyla blinked, accepted the towel, and then shook her head. "He doesn't need padding," she said very softly. "He is ample without it."

"'Ample,' eh?" Chronica said, smiling. "That would be more than just 'adequate' but not exactly 'excessive,' I suppose?"

"Ample," Shyla repeated more firmly as she finished wiping her hands dry. Her blush seemed deeper than before.

Chronica finished drying her own hands, and then laid one on Shyla's shoulder. "You don't know how to answer that first question, do you?" she said softly. "You've never been with anyone else, have you?"

Shyla's blush turned an even deeper shade. "No," she said, very softly, "nor will I."

Chronica mentally gave Vash points for being accurate about Shyla's purity and gentleness. Now to test innocence and sweetness...

"So," Chronica said, after quickly glancing about again to make sure they were still alone in the room, "Do you share?"

Shyla's shocked expression was a picture. "I... I..." she sputtered for a moment, and then she looked down. Her blush evaporated, leaving her paler than before. "I don't think so, but that's really up to him," she said at last, so softly that it was difficult to hear her - even with plant senses. "If he thought it would make him happy..." Shyla's chin quivered, and she blinked rapidly several times, but she said no more.

The initial shock indicated innocence clearly enough. That she wanted him to be happy, no matter how much it hurt her, suggested that Vash was likely correct about her sweetness, too.

"Let's go find out," Chronica said wickedly. She had a hunch that Vash would be every bit as monogamous as his wife, at least during their marriage.

She'd heard rumors about his behavior before he settled down, but she didn't expect Shyla to know much about the accuracy - or not - of those rumors. She linked her arm in Shyla's, and led her back out into the café and then back to their table.

Even before they reached the table, she could see that Vash was aware that _something_ had passed between them. His eyes held concern, and his gaze was focused only on Shyla.

Chronica watched, and saw Shyla slightly shake her head. The younger plant female said nothing, though her chin was still quivering.

Vash scooted closer to her, and put his right arm around his wife's shoulders. There was something simultaneously comforting and protective about the way that he gently pulled her closer to him. When he looked up at Chronica, his eyes were hard.

(What did you do to her?) his thoughts demanded.

Chronica decided she'd better come clean. Or at least _mostly_ come clean.

"I was curious," she admitted, looking back at Vash, though her words were for both. "When you described her, all those years ago... your description sounded unrealistic. I thought you had to be exaggerating. So I asked her a few _very_ pointed questions, to find out how she measured up to the high standard you had described."

Chronica sighed. She didn't think she would feel so guilty for asking a few questions, but she hadn't expected to hurt the girl, either. She redirected her gaze to his wife. "I'm sorry, Shyla. I didn't expect you to react as you did. He was right, and I went too far."

Shyla looked up at her, startled. She turned her head to look at Vash's face, still looking startled and puzzled.

"I didn't believe him," Chronica said gently. "I'm sorry."

She hadn't expected that anyone would be quite so much the embodiment of gentleness, purity, innocence and sweetness as Shyla seemed to be. Vash had expressed so much admiration for those four qualities in her that Chronica had thought he was merely speaking under the influence of infatuation.

Chronica recalled with regret how she'd lost her own innocence as a victim to curiosity. A handful of boys had offered her "lessons" and insisted that she wouldn't be a real person until she learned what they had to teach. She'd fallen prey to their scam, and often cursed herself since then for being such a naïve fool.

After that experience, she had often wondered what it would be like to do those things with someone else. She hadn't been curious enough to try it again, but she did think about it. The idea of more experiences like the ones she'd already had didn't appeal to her at all.

She imagined it could be very different to share those activities with someone gentle and caring like Vash. Her "instructors" had not cared; or at least, they had not cared about _her_. And they had all been ordinary humans, with the comparatively awkward reflexes of humans. None of them had moved with anything approaching Vash's catlike grace.

She'd met some of his sons, and they all seemed to move like he did. She hadn't asked them if they wished to experiment. However, the curiosity about how different it might be with Vash or one of his sons was not going away. Maybe, with another plant, it wouldn't be so unpleasant...

Chronica pushed aside such wistful speculation, and focused on the present.

Vash looked toward his wife again, an inquiry so plainly stamped upon his features that it might have been written there in large print.

"She inquired about your... health," Shyla said, very softly. "Then she wondered if we... if you... that is, if you ever..." she swallowed, hard, and then barely whispered, "she wondered if you ever sleep with anyone else."

When Vash looked back at Chronica, his eyes narrowed. "No," he said firmly. "I don't do that. Ever." His cheeks suddenly looked sunburned, but his glare remained firm.

"I didn't think you would, even before I asked," Chronica said. She felt a little disappointed, but she wasn't really surprised by his refusal. Then her slightly wicked sense of humor prompted her to add, "Though that doesn't entirely exclude the possibility that I might arrange to be assigned as a partner with one of your sons..."

(I hope 'ample' runs in the family?) she thought to Shyla, and then smiled. She made sure that Shyla could feel the playfulness she intended with that inquiry.

Shyla's eyes widened again, and one of her hands flew to cover her mouth. She almost giggled in response to Chronica's mischievous thought.

(My sons, grandsons, great-grandsons and great-great grandsons prefer a male doctor after they reach a certain age,) Shyla thought back. Chronica could feel some playfulness from Shyla, but also that she was offering a moderately serious answer. (However, Vash's brother was somewhat... less so... than he is. So I'm honestly not sure how much that particular feature "runs in the family.")

Chronica's eyebrows shot up toward her hairline. It was her turn to open her eyes uncommonly wide, as a side-effect of being surprised. She remembered well the footage of Knives' fight with Shyla, when Knives was entirely unclothed.

Chronica would personally consider Vash's brother as moderately more than adequate in that department. The man had a fine physique; as much as she despised him, she'd been unable to avoid noticing that. It was Knives' mind, and heart, that were incurably twisted. She'd viewed the tapes several times, and never found any fault with his body.

If Shyla was reasonably accurate in her comparison between the two... and Shyla should know, since she'd seen both brothers unclothed at close quarters...

It was suddenly very difficult for Chronica to avoid looking speculatively at Vash. She resisted the urge, since yielding would utterly destroy the small fragile trust she had thus far acquired. She would _not_ look at Vash, not now...

(So... just how many of your sons are unmarried?) Chronica thought after a moment, in an odd blend of seriousness and playfulness. She knew they'd had dozens of children over the centuries, including around fifty sons. That didn't count their grandsons, great-grandsons, and so on.

Shyla started giggling so hard that she was gasping for breath. She leaned her head on Vash's shoulder, to avoid falling over.

Vash looked thoroughly puzzled, as he glanced from his wife to Chronica, and back again.

"Sorry, a little girl talk," Chronica said, smiling impishly at Shyla and knowing full well that she sounded incompletely apologetic. In truth, she wasn't _that_ sorry. Yet it was polite to apologize, so she observed the form.

This only made Shyla's giggling worse, and more contagious. It wasn't long before all three were laughing helplessly as they sat around the empty table, even though Vash wasn't in on the joke.

...

The three stood at the edge of town at sunset. The Saverems each had a bag slung over one shoulder. They were ready to depart.

This time, the parting was much more friendly. Vash wasn't recovering from injuries she'd inflicted. Instead, the three of them had spent a long, pleasant evening walking around town and "shooting the breeze" about a wide array of different topics. There had been a great deal of chatting and laughing.

Shyla had carefully steered the conversation away from any further reference to masculine plant physiques, aesthetic appeal, intimate abilities, or availability. Chronica wasn't aware of how much she thought about those things, until she realized the other female was nudging the talk away from them... again.

It felt surprisingly good to talk with other plants. Most times, her job didn't allow time for such luxuries. She was glad she'd succeeded in getting this afternoon and evening off. This sister and brother were beginning to feel like friends.

"It was good to finally meet you, Shyla," Chronica said at last. She shook Shyla's hand, and then Vash's. "And good to see you again."

"Likewise," Vash replied.

"Perhaps we could write, sometimes?" she suggested. "I'm not the best correspondent, but I'm usually around here somewhere."

"That would be a pleasure," Shyla said, smiling.

"Are you sure you want to go now?" Chronica said, suddenly wistful. "This town has several nice hotels..."

"We're expected elsewhere soon enough that we need to get going," Vash said. "We'll travel a few hours, rest, and rise early to continue our journey."

"We have a tent and several blankets," Shyla said. "We'll be fine."

"All right," Chronica said. "Safe journeys to you, then."

"And safe and pleasant days to you," Vash replied, smiling.

Shyla only nodded, while smiling her gentle smile.

They began to walk away, and then both turned and waved. Chronica waved back, and then watched them until they disappeared into the night.

...

...

...

...

**Author's note**: _the complete details of the prior meeting between Vash and Chronica can be found in one of the tales in the collection titled, _"Search for a Stampede."_ Knives' fate, and the reasons why any unexpected mention of him may produce a strong reaction in Shyla, are detailed in the story, _"Loss."


	7. News

_Vash the Stampede belongs to the amazingly creative Yasuhiro Nightow, not me (*sigh*)._

_The following chapter begins roughly 2000 years post-manga._

...

...

**News**

Vash frowned over his morning paper, and Shyla felt an emotional spike that concerned her. The children had just left for school, so hopefully they would be sufficiently distracted that they would not notice.

However, Rem or Naomi might wander in to check on them if they noticed those strong feelings.

She finished drying the dishes, and then walked over toward her husband.

"What is it, dearest?" she asked.

He flicked his gaze up at her, and his expression softened. "Sad news," he said. "Do you recall that girl who made such a fuss at Nicholas' wedding, about 800 years ago?"

"Yes," she replied. "She was so bitter, and spiteful, and hurt. But I don't think her hurts were all about our Nicholas. I think she'd been mistreated long before she ever saw him."

"I'm inclined to agree that her troubles began well before Nicholas walked into her life," he said. "Do you recall how she claimed to have met him 60 years prior, but she still looked as young as we do?"

"I do remember that," she said, "and that we speculated she might have some plant blood slowing or stopping her aging process."

"It seems that others had a similar theory," he said, and sighed. "She was murdered, centuries ago, and the only clue besides the poison used was the impression of a crooked leaf symbol on a clay disk."

"That's terrible!" Shyla said. "Was that information never released before today?"

"Apparently not," Vash replied grimly. "It seems her death was the first that included a clay disk with that strange symbol. Since then, it has turned up about twice per century, and always at scenes of crimes against independent plants or people rumored to be independent plants. Most are just vandalism or ambiguous threats, but there was another murder scene with a disk last month."

"I thought we had achieved peace with ordinary humans," Shyla said softly.

She sat beside him, and he immediately extended his right arm. She snuggled against his side with her hands in her lap, and rested her head on his shoulder. He hugged her gently, and leaned his cheek on the top of her head. In that adjusted position, he continued reading the disturbing news written in the paper.

"With most ordinary humans, we have," he said. "Unfortunately, it appears as if some few have acquired a different opinion. They seem fine with orb-sisters, but they seem to object to any of us that are out freely wandering around."

"Is anything being done?" she asked.

"Sheriff Central has apparently decided that all independent plants must henceforth travel in groups of four or more," he said. "I expect we'll get orders to that effect shortly, if they aren't already waiting for us."

Shyla nodded mutely. "I wonder if our new partners will be ordinary humans, or plants?" she speculated out loud.

"I'd imagine they'll partner us with some of our children," he said. "Perhaps they will choose Rem and Naomi, since they live here in the Seeds Village also."

"Oh, yes," she said, feeling a little better. "That would make sense. I hope that is what they do." She still felt painfully awkward around strangers most times, so keeping partnerships within the family was more comfortable for her.

"Ah, Mayfly," he said gently, as he turned his face to speak into her hair, "you were well-named. The first three letters speak one of many truths about you."

She felt heat in her face. "Am I that obvious?" she asked.

"Only to one who knows and loves you as well as I do," he replied, kissing her hair.

She put her arms around him and hugged him tightly. She could feel it whispering again... her destiny. There was that warning: one day she would have to choose between his life and her own. She knew when that day came, she must choose his.

It no longer terrified her. However, it was not a pleasant thought. He was worth the sacrifice of her life; that was not the issue. She'd simply hoped that things had grown so peaceful that it would never be needed.

This grim reminder was most unwelcome.

Yet even so, deep inside her heart, she renewed her commitment. If ever a time did come when the choice had to be made, she would choose him. She almost felt like crying, since she also wanted to live.

"Mayfly?" he said softly. Then he dropped the paper, and turned toward her with both arms. "Shyla!"

"I'm here, dearest," she said softly.

"Don't leave me," he pleaded, burying his face against her neck and clinging to her tightly.

"I'm not going anywhere," she said, puzzled. "As long as I live, I'll stay by your side."

"Your emotions," he said, his voice breaking. "It felt like... please, I don't ever want to feel that again. Whatever you were thinking, please, I beg you, don't think that way anymore."

She refused to make a promise that she couldn't keep. "I love you, dearest," she whispered, and unleashed the flood-gates of her heart so that he could feel her love for him instead of whatever had alarmed him.

"I love you too," he replied, and she felt an answering depth and width and breadth of warmth that encompassed her own. Yes, he was worth it. He would always be worth it.

There was a tap on their door. She smiled as Naomi called to them.

"Come in," she answered.

Vash loosened his hold on her enough to bend and retrieve the newspaper. "Some strange news," he said, settling back into the couch and putting his arm back around her. Yet he held her more tightly than before.

Naomi sat to his left, and perused the paper with him. Whatever was happening had outlasted several human lifespans, so someone was teaching others to perpetuate these crimes. All three hoped, ere long, the culprits would be stopped without any one else being hurt. When Vash expressed his opinion that perhaps she and Rem would be assigned as their additional partners, Naomi liked the idea.

"Sounds like I may need to renew my oath as a deputy," she said. "However, that's fine with me. I've always enjoyed traveling, and I love spending time with you and Mama."

"Perhaps we should verify this, or request it," Vash suggested. "Then maybe Rem can join us this evening, and we can celebrate being a four-way team."

"Oh, yes!" Naomi said, hugging her father and then standing up in her gentle excitement. "I'll go see what I can learn."

She was almost immediately on her way.

Shyla smiled after her, and felt something similar in Vash.

Then he turned toward her again, and she felt concern and... was that fear? Surely the tales of a few strange crimes, none of which had occurred in or near Seeds Village, would not frighten him?

(Are you ok, Mayfly?) his thought whispered gently into her mind.

(As far as I know, dearest,) she thought. (Are you ok? You seem terribly worried about something.)

(I'm worried about you,) he thought, with his usual transparent straightforwardness... when he wasn't joking about something. There was no joking or teasing in him now. (You felt strange for a moment there, distant, sad, afraid, cold... I don't know what to call it. Something was wrong - badly wrong - and I didn't know how to fix it. Please, let me help. Whatever it is, don't bear it alone. Your mother was right: no one should bear heavy things alone when others are nearby who love them.)

(Just a nightmare I had as a child, that sometimes makes me uncomfortable when I remember it,) she thought to him. It was enough of the truth that she didn't feel like she was deceiving him. (Just feeling you close is all the cure that I need.)

She felt his arms tighten around her. (Then I'll stay close, at least until you feel like yourself again,) he thought.

(Thank you,) she thought, with both inner and outer smiles.

About that time, Naomi burst back into the house. "Orders received!" she said with delight. "You were right, Papa. We're teamed together!"

"That's great news!" he said. Since he didn't let go of Shyla, she had to stand with him. However, she had no objection to being drawn into the three-way hug that resulted.

"Rem's on her way," Naomi said. "Since we have evening shift at the infirmary this week, and it's Mama's day off, why don't we do something special for lunch? There's a new café in the ship that people claim has food almost as good as Mama's."

"I think that sounds like an excellent idea," he said. "We can learn the truth of it, and hopefully give your mother one less round of dishes to deal with."

"Pshaw," Shyla said. "You've been doing most of the dishes for the last two centuries anyhow."

He grinned in that way that always made her wonder if he was deliberately turning on extra boyish charm. (It gets me more doughnuts,) he thought to her, (so why wouldn't I want to help out?)

She swatted his shoulder, and they wrestled a little, and then fell into some normal banter that cheered her more than she would have thought possible.

Naomi was laughing at their antics.

She smiled at her daughter, and then looked again at her husband.

"Let's go, before we make a complete mess of ourselves and are no longer fit to be seen in public," she suggested.

"Yes Ma'am," he replied, with such an intensely serious expression on his face that she didn't need to see the twinkle in his eyes, nor feel the sampling of his emotions, to know he was teasing.

She jabbed a finger into his ribs, which shattered that brief illusion of calm quite well.

After a moment, when everyone's laughter calmed, he extended his bent arm for her to take. Thus he would escort her to a lunch she didn't have to cook.

She slipped her arm around his, and smiled up at him.

He extended his prosthetic arm for Naomi, who also accepted.

As they began walking down the path, she felt as if she was falling in love with him all over again.

Ah yes, her Vash. He was worth anything and everything. For him, she would do anything.

Anything at all.

...

...

...

...

... _continued in_ "Crooked Leaves"


End file.
